You Can't Possibly Have Any Reasonable Objections
by taylorpotato
Summary: It was stupid to get involved with a student in the first place. It was downright idiotic to get attached to them. But somehow, Professor Watson let himself fall in love with Sherlock Holmes anyway. Teenlock/Unilock. Sequel to, "The Appropriate Time to Have Moral Objections."


_**Fair warning: age difference, teacher-student relationship, sexy times, biting, spanking, car sex, sex in public, and disgusting fluff.**_

* * *

"Have you done this before?" It was an obligatory question, more than anything. One John probably should have asked earlier, before he had three slick fingers inside Sherlock's arse.

But there they were. Sherlock's lithe, pale body sprawled decadently across the sheets. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen from the utterly brutal kisses that had led them to such a state of affairs.

John kneeled between Sherlock's spread thighs, fingering him slowly. Savoring the way the younger man moaned and bucked his hips whenever John grazed across his prostate.

"What do you think?" Sherlock somehow managed to look smug, even when he was panting and entirely naked.

It was a trap, and John knew it. But there wasn't really a way out. "I dunno… you seem comfortable enough."

"You could be my first, if you'd like…" Sherlock shrugged.

"But am I?"

"What does it matter?"

It mattered very much. Because the decent parts of John's mind cringed at the idea of taking away Sherlock's innocence. The less than decent parts of him really loved the idea of being the first one to ever fuck Sherlock through a mind-melting orgasm.

But John didn't particularly feel like articulating either of those things. So he settled for withdrawing his fingers, rolling on a condom, and slowly sinking into the ridiculously tight, welcoming heat of Sherlock's body.

The younger man let out a small groan as John slid into him. He wrapped his legs around John's waist. Clutched at his shoulders. For a few moments, his normally sarcastic demeanor shattered, and he became a volatile, needy creature.

John dropped down, so that their bodies pressed together. So that he could kiss Sherlock softly, reassuringly. He didn't know which of them it was for. But Sherlock opened his mouth eagerly. Hungry for everything John had to give him.

John rocked into Sherlock slowly, edging deeper by small increments. The younger man let out little breathy sounds with John's every motion.

Before long, Sherlock started rolling his hips in time with John's thrusts.

And god. He was so perfect. His body gripped John's cock like it was a precious thing. Like it never wanted to let go. Each slide into him sent sparks of pleasure ricocheting through John's nerve endings.

"Oh fuck you're tight," John groaned. He grazed his teeth across the skin on Sherlock's neck. He couldn't help himself. He bit down. He could practically feel Sherlock's heart rate increase.

What had started off slow and gentle picked up speed and became savage. Sherlock's little noises became much louder, and more frantic. The still coherent sections of John's brain quietly worried that the neighbors could hear. He hoped that the nice little old woman who lived next door and brought him cookies on holidays was out shopping or something…

"Yes… come on… harder…" Sherlock gasped.

And John was happy to oblige.

He drove into Sherlock relentlessly. He tried his best to angle his thrusts upwards, to drag across the younger man's prostate. He always preferred it, if he could make his lover come first. And from the way Sherlock started to tense and whine, it didn't seem like it would be that difficult.

John reached between them and grabbed hold of Sherlock's prick. He began to stroke it in time with their motions.

The slide of their bodies, the heat of each other, the general haze of sex hovered around them—making the scene seem almost unreal. Like a beautiful dream. Sherlock's eyes were closed. His lips parted.

"Oh, please, Professor. I can take it… give it to me."

John thrust into him hard and deep, one, two, three more times.

And then Sherlock body clamped down around John's cock. Clenched around him in a series of rhythmic spasms. Right at that moment, when Sherlock came, smearing his ejaculate between them he all but whispered...

"John."

And that was all the older man could take. He went reeling over the edge. Almost by accident. He'd intended to savor his victory for a little bit after he'd gotten Sherlock off. But the massive build of tension released. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He crashed over the edge or orgasm, letting out a few, rather undignified noises.

He coallapsed. Lay there for a momment, trying to catch his breath. Trying to reconcile the fact that he hadn't fucked somebody as young as Sherlock since he himself was at University.

"You're not," Sherlock said simply.

It took a few moments for it to slot into place. But really, of course Sherlock wasn't a virgin. With a body like that... and his face... well how could he be?

"Fair enough," John shrugged, sliding out of Sherlock's body, he tossed the condom in the rubbish bin underneath his desk, and flopped back down on the mattress. Bone tired. It felt like he'd just run a bloody marathon.

"If it's any consolation, you're a better fuck."

"Than who?"

"Any of them."

"How many exactly is them? Actually. Don't tell me that. I don't want to know."

Sherlock nudged him with a bony elbow. "You think I'm a slut?"

"No—I just—never mind."

He turned his head and looked at the younger man out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock didn't seem at all offended. He was grinning. Sweaty. Completely shagged out. And fuck if it wasn't the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

* * *

His chance to back out of anything would have been after the first time. And John had failed at that miserably. So it continued to happen. Whatever it was. The longer it went on, the more momentum it gathered. Until it got to the point where John wouldn't even dream of trying to throw on the breaks.

On Friday nights, at around seven o'clock, John would hear a knock on his door.

He'd open it to find Sherlock. Usually dressed to the nines, in his blazers and Gucci shirts that probably cost more than John's rent. He always found it a bit funny, that Sherlock dressed up. Because he never stayed in his clothes for very long.

The first few times John had tried to offer the younger man dinner. Perhaps to ease his guilt slightly. So he could say that he was at least feeding the skinny bastard up a little bit. But Sherlock declined enough times that John stopped offering.

Perhaps Sherlock didn't have much of an appetite. Perhaps he just didn't want to waste time.

Either way, within seconds of John letting him in and closing the door behind him, Sherlock would drape his arms around John's shoulder and pull him into a kiss. A needy, desperate, frantic kiss that probably should have been some sort of red flag. John couldn't help but find it sexy.

It seemed the rational parts of his brain completely broke down where Sherlock was concerned.

And really, who could blame him?

At first, John tried to be careful about their meetings. He had a lot of little rules, to try to keep them out of trouble.

He wouldn't talk to Sherlock on campus grounds except for during class. And even then, he'd call on anybody else when given the chance.

He never let Sherlock get in his car.

No texting or calling during school hours. And besides that, it had to be kept to a minimum. No dirty picture messages. No incriminating emails.

He tried not to leave any marks where they would show—but that was the most difficult part. Because whenever John sucked bruises onto Sherlock's neck, the younger man would let out the most delicious sighs and moans.

Most of the time, he felt like a terrible person. Because even though Sherlock wanted the sex—demanded it—he was so young. Not a child, by any means. But not quite an adult either. Sherlock still sulked when he didn't get what he wanted. Still lived on his parent's money. Still didn't understand a lot of things about the complexities of human emotion, even if he was terrifyingly brilliant.

At least John wasn't married.

He knew some of the other teachers had messed about with students in the past, and wrecked their home lives in the process. He'd always told himself he wouldn't be one of those people. One of those lecherous University Professors.

But still, he found himself lying in bed with a nineteen year old at least once a week. Sometimes more often.

Even more disturbingly, Sherlock often stayed until the next morning. Because after sex, he would curl up next to John and fall asleep, and John usually didn't have the heart to wake him.

Because he never looked more innocent than when his eyes were closed. His face relaxed. His dark hair frizzy and wild. When he was awake, Sherlock had a certain sharpness about him. His piercing gaze, stiff posture, and bitingly sarcastic manner of speech. But asleep… well… it all fell away.

* * *

The first rule that broke down was the no getting into John's car rule. It went out the window, along with his ideas about not talking to each other on campus.

Because John stayed at his office rather late on a Wednesday evening, and as he was walking out to his car, Sherlock pounced.

Apparently, Sherlock had just gotten out of class and seen John in the hallway. But really, John wouldn't have put it past Sherlock to wait for him.

It was dark out—nothing but the iridescent glow of the streetlights, casting yellow pools of illumination onto the sidewalk. Sherlock caught up with John just as he was unlocking the door of his little sedan.

Sherlock's hand came down on John's shoulder. The smaller man jumped slightly before wheeling around. Sherlock grinned lazily.

"Good evening, Professor Watson," he drawled in his usual condescending tone.

And really, that shouldn't send all the blood rushing down to John's cock. But god help him, it did.

"Evening, Mr. Holmes," John replied curtly.

They were all alone in the parking lot, or so it would seem. They still should have been nervous. Should have been more careful. Because what if somebody saw them like that? Talking in low tones. Huddled together, far too late in the evening for it to look innocent.

Sherlock traced a finger over the buttons of John's dress shirt. It sent shivers through the smaller man's body. It was a few seconds before he could collect himself.

"We can't…" he whispered. "Not here."

"Then perhaps we should get in your car, so you can drive us somewhere else," Sherlock licked his lips.

The words were on the tip of John's tongue. No. What if someone sees us? We can't be caught having sex in public, for god's sake.

But then Sherlock leaned down and pressed one, fleeting kiss against John's mouth. Apparently that was all it took to break the older man entirely. Because the next thing he knew, Sherlock was in the passenger seat of his car, and they were trundling out of the school's parking lot.

"Where should we go? Back to my flat?" John asked in a voice not entirely his own. Sherlock smiled and placed a hand on John's thigh, squeezing gently.

"We always go to your flat. Let's do something exciting."

"Like what?"

"Pull off in that alleyway up there."

"No, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Nobody's going to see us. It's dark… I'll let you spank me."

"I—what?"

"You want to. You're always squeezing my arse. I know you've thought about it."

John felt his cheeks start to color. Sometimes, it was nice to have a sexual partner that could guess exactly what you wanted. Other times, however, it was horribly embarrassing.

"Come on, Sir," Sherlock purred. "I've been such a naughty boy. Don't you think I need some discipline?"

Fuck.

John took in a slow, steadying breath. This was mad. The whole thing. Then again, if he were any sort of sensible, he wouldn't be shagging Sherlock Holmes in the first place.

Still. He drove for a few more blocks. Took a few turns so they were off the main thoroughfare.

He stopped the car in the darkest part of a narrow alley. He looked up. There weren't any lights on in the windows above them. His heart still raced a bit. Because sex with a student was morally dubious. And sex in public was decidedly illegal. If they got caught, no doubt it would end up in the papers.

They both got out of the car. Sherlock grinned as he opened one of the back doors and ducked inside. John followed after a minute. They sat on opposite sides of the back seat, just staring at each other. Both breathing a bit faster. Sherlock closed the distance. He kissed John wetly. Full of intention.

And for a moment, John was reminded of his misguided teenage fumbling. Groping and foggy glass. Sweat on leather seats.

He was a grown man. He really shouldn't be doing this kind of shit anymore.

But then Sherlock unzipped his trousers and wriggled out of them. He kicked off his shoes and pants, leaving him naked from the waist down. His cock half hard already. The younger man all but trembled with anticipation.

"How would you like me, professor?" He asked coyly. He obviously thought his acting was cute. It was. But John liked it better when Sherlock broke down and started moaning incoherently.

John tugged Sherlock forward, arranged him so that the seat still mostly supported him. Sherlock folded his legs. Kneeled. His stomach pressed across John's thighs. A bit awkward. But it didn't really matter.

Sherlock wriggled slightly. Impatient. John could felt the younger man's cock pressing against his leg.

John ran his hand over the smooth skin of Sherlock's arse. Pale. Soft. Springy. He did have quite the lush little bum—especially considering how skinny the rest of him was.

"Do you have any idea why you're being punished?" John asked as he drew his hand back. Poised to strike.

"No, Sir," Sherlock breathed.

"You've been handing back pop quizzes with the grammar of the questions corrected and it's annoying."

"Really? That's the best reason you can come up with?" Sherlock snorted.

John brought his hand down across Sherlock's left arse cheek. A bit more forceful than strictly necessary. Sherlock jerked. Surprised. John smoothed his fingers over the place he'd just struck. He wanted to leave marks. Handprints. He wanted Sherlock to think of him every time he sat down for the next week.

He hit Sherlock again. This time on the other cheek. Sherlock let out a little gasp. John smiled.

The sound of his hand coming in contact with Sherlock's skin was exceedingly satisfying. It echoed around the car. He peppered Sherlock's bum with quick little slaps. He wished the light were a bit better. But he could still see the pale skin coloring, taking on a pleasing pink hue.

He paused for a moment. Let his hand wander down to where Sherlock's cock pressed against him. He wrapped his hand around it and gave Sherlock one long, slow stroke. The younger man whimpered. Shivered.

Obviously the whole exercise had him rather keyed up as well.

John gave him a few more good swats. Hard enough that his fingers were tingling. Hard enough that Sherlock's skin felt excessively warm to the touch.

Sherlock moved. Groping around for something on the floor of the car. He dug into his trouser pocket. Then he held up a packet of lube.

John took it wordlessly. Tore the foil and smeared the lubricant across his fingers. He slid his slippery index finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks. Brushed across his hole teasingly. He pressed inwards slowly. Savoring the sensation. The way Sherlock's body clenched around him.

He brushed across Sherlock's prostate. Just barely, before retreating. He took his time before adding a second finger. Stretching Sherlock slowly. Savoring the little breathy noises he managed to get out of the younger man.

By the time he worked a third finger in, he had Sherlock whining and moaning, and bucking back against his hand. Please, please, please.

John withdrew his fingers. "Ride me," he grinned.

Sherlock quickly rearranged himself—straddling John, sitting on his lap. He unzipped John's trousers and pulled out his cock. He held it steady with one hand as he sank down onto it. The long, satisfied groan he let out went straight through John. He could feel it in his balls.

The younger man took a few moments to adjust, before he started rocking his hips experimentally. He placed his arms on the back of the seat for leverage. John's hand drifted back to Sherlock's arse of their own accord. The skin was still hot. Raw. Sherlock shuddered when John squeezed.

"You're a bit of a pain slut, aren't you?" John chuckled.

"You think?" Sherlock said in a rather strained voice.

Before too long, he really began to move. He lifted himself up and sank back down, fucking himself on John's prick, and god it was glorious. Sherlock leaned forward a bit, to kiss John messily. But as he did, he seemed to find the right angle by accident, and he got entirely distracted.

He began to bounce on John's cock, with rapid, shallow motions. The noises he made. If John didn't know better, he might think Sherlock was about to break down into tears.

"That's it," John whispered, "you like using my cock to get yourself off, don't you?"

Sherlock couldn't seem to muster a reply besides—ugh.

"God, you're lovely. You so gorgeous Sherlock. So tight and perfect. You feel so good." John knew he was babbling. He didn't really care. Sherlock moved even faster. Sweating. Letting out a small whimper with each down stroke.

The windows had fogged up. The air in the car felt humid. Almost tropical. The car rocked back and forth on its wheels. Just slightly. But John could still feel it.

"Oh fuck," the younger man nearly sobbed. "Fuck. Fuck. FUCK."

John could hardly believe it, but he felt it. He felt Sherlock start to tense. Heard him let out a few ragged gasps.

And then Sherlock came. Without John even touching him. He clenched around John's cock, shuddered, and let out a long moan.

John grabbed a firm hold of Sherlock's hips and thrust up into him. Sherlock slumped forward, face pressed into John's shoulder, barely able to keep stationary. But it didn't take much. John chased that wonderful tingling pleasure until it overwhelmed him. Until it pulsed through him in a delirious wave. He grasped Sherlock just a bit tighter as he came.

Then the entire world seemed to go still. Sherlock lifted off him enough for John's cock to slip out. But then he slumped back against John, still trying to catch his breath. The air cooled, rushing in around their sweaty skin.

They hadn't used a condom. It had all gone so fast, John had barely registered it. But as the haze of his orgasm began to fade, the worry started to creep in.

"I can feel your come oozing out of me," Sherlock drawled.

"I um… sorry?"

"It's all right. I actually rather liked it. Feeling you that way… I got tested about a month ago, and there's nothing to worry about on my end. Though I suppose that's a conversation we should have had before instead of after."

"I'm clean as well," John shrugged.

"I expected as much." Sherlock sighed against him. "You know that's never happened before."

"What?"

"I've never come without touching my cock."

"How'd it feel?"

"Bloody fantastic."

John chuckled. He traced his fingers over Sherlock's back in a meandering, meaningless pattern. Eventually, they would have to move. Have to clean up.

But perhaps they could wait until some of the fog cleared from the windows.

* * *

"So are you going home for the holidays?" John asked carefully. It was either late at night, or early in the morning. No light peeked through around the edges of John's curtains. The sheets were tangled around them. An utter mess—but he was too sleepy to do anything about it. Sherlock yawned lazily, curling a bit closer to him.

"Yes. Unfortunately," he replied after a few minutes.

"Ah," John nodded.

"Don't sound so put out. It's not like I'm never coming back."

John didn't say anything. Because he knew how these things worked. Sherlock would be gone for almost five weeks. That's a long time when you're nineteen. Sherlock would forget about him. Move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps find somebody a bit more age appropriate. It would be good for them both.

It was stupid to get involved with a student in the first place. It was downright idiotic to get attached to them. And John had wandered into dangerous waters.

Because Sherlock didn't just come over on Fridays anymore. He showed up on Sundays. He showed up on Tuesday afternoons. He showed up to drink wine and rest his head on John's shoulder as they sat on the couch and watched old James Bond movies. It was almost more than John could stand.

"You're worrying about something," Sherlock mumbled. "Stop it."

"All right, " John sighed.

And soon enough, they both fell asleep.

* * *

Sherlock didn't call or text over Christmas. Not that John had expected him to. But his little flat felt even lonelier than usual.

He went to Harry's for dinner one night. Took a train to visit his mother in Sussex.

And on New Year's Eve, he went to Mike Stamford's party. Tons of University staff went every year. He tried his best to have a good time. He ended up giving Molly Hooper, the pretty chem-lab assistant, a peck on the lips when the clock struck midnight.

John still wasn't in his best form when school started back up again. He read his syllabus to the fresh sea of blank faces. He taught the same lessons he'd been teaching for years. After the first few days, he managed to scare away most of the burnouts with threats of pop quizzes and mountains of homework. After all, his course wasn't for the faint of heart.

By the time he got back home that Friday night, he felt utterly spent. For once, he was actually looking forward to the solitude. To sitting in front of the television and letting his mind go blank. Perhaps he'd order take away.

He took a nice long shower and changed into an old t-shirt and a comfortably worn pair of jeans.

Seven o'clock came and went. John let the last of his vague, and rather silly hope that Sherlock would come by flicker out. He ordered Thai and caught up on some grading for a few hours.

He had just settled down to some nice Dr. Who reruns when there was a sharp knock on his door. John blinked a few times. He hadn't invited anybody over. It was almost 22:00. Who would be dropping by this late on a Friday evening, when the rest of the world was out having a good time?

Another knock echoed loudly through John's small flat. He stood back up, and padded across the carpet in his bare feet. He opened the door cautiously.

Sherlock stood there, in his usual suit, with raised eyebrows.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as he brushed past John into the flat without waiting to be invited. "I was unavoidably detained by my brother. He's annoying at the best of times, but when he's worried about me, he's downright insufferable."

John stood, with his hand on the doorknob, floundering. He'd prepared himself for rejection. He'd already accepted it.

Sherlock's sudden appearance upset the delicate state of surrender he'd reached. And it made his heart beat faster. It made his blood rush south.

"Well don't just stare at me," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "come here."

John let the door swing shut. Then he closed the space between them. Wrapped his arms around Sherlock's slender waist. Pulled him into a languid kiss.

The younger boy tasted of peppermint. His cheeks were rosy with the cold.

John almost let it slip out. I thought you wouldn't come back. But he managed to keep it in. Instead he asked, "why's you're brother worried about you? You haven't gotten into trouble, have you?"

"No," Sherlock grinned wryly. "He found out I was sleeping with you and nearly had a heart attack."

"Jesus," John grumbled.

"Don't worry. I set him straight. I've got more than enough information to blackmail him quite thoroughly. It was well worth it to pull out one of my better trump cards. Now let's stop talking about it."

* * *

Another two terms dragged by. Sherlock would disappear occasionally. Sometimes during a break. Other times without any explanation whatsoever. Apparently, as well as doing his coursework, he was working as a part time consultant of some sort. When pressed for details he'd told John he was working with the police. Helping them track down criminals.

It all sounded rather dangerous. But he knew better than to try to get Sherlock to stop or slow down. It wasn't his place.

At the back of his mind, John constantly prepared himself for the inevitable end. Because Sherlock was nineteen and he was thirty-seven. And then Sherlock was twenty, and he was thirty-eight.

He knew when the one-year anniversary, of whatever it was they'd been doing, went past. He didn't say anything. Sherlock didn't say anything. Perhaps length of time didn't mean much. They'd still never sat down and properly discussed what they were doing. If they were exclusive. If there were any feelings beyond the mind-blowing sex.

Of course, John had let himself go head over heels despite all better judgment. But he never articulated it.

Sherlock simply showed up at John's flat, unannounced, several days of the week. He occasionally accosted John at school, or even about town, for a quick, filthy shag. It was a fact of life.

Complacence seemed to be the best route.

* * *

Two years.

John couldn't believe it had been two years. Sherlock showed up at his flat, as per usual. And instead of hopping into bed right away, John stopped him.

"Do you ever marvel at how quickly time passes?" He asked, round about. Vague.

"Not particularly," Sherlock crowded against him. Leaned down so they were practically sharing breath. But John turned his head away.

"I mean—this has been going on an awfully long time. Whatever this is. Between us."

"I suppose it has," Sherlock agreed, somewhat impatiently.

"I mean, this is just..." John didn't want to say it. Didn't want to ask, are you still seeing other people? Because I'm not. This is the longest relationship I've been in since I was twenty-five. Are we even calling it a relationship?

"What?" Sherlock asked, frowning slightly. He ran his fingers along John's neck, tracing down his spinal cord.

"Nothing, forget it."

"John..." Sherlock leaned in, looking a bit more nervous. "You're not... I'm sorry about whatever I did."

"You haven't done anything wrong."

"But you look the way people usually look when they're about to leave me." Sherlock said in such an empty, deadpan voice, John had to pause and make sure he'd heard it correctly.

"I'm not trying to leave you," he laughed. "God help me, I'm not sure I ever will."

"Good," Sherlock smiled, looking slightly relieved.

"But does that mean—well—there is something to leave, then. Isn't there? I mean... what am I to you?"

"Professor John Watson."

"Oh," John nodded.

"That wasn't the right answer, was it?"

"No. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"I love you."

"What?"

"Don't make me say it again."

John let the shock sink in for a minute before he hugged Sherlock tightly. "I love you too, Sherlock," he said quietly.

* * *

The day Sherlock graduated brought on a lot of mixed feelings. John sat in the crowd, with some of the other teachers, and watched Sherlock cross the stage. Watched him receive his diploma.

He tried not to cry, but one or two tears did slip out.

He couldn't find Sherlock after the ceremony ended. Perhaps he'd been dragged away by his family. Stamford invited John out, but he declined. He grabbed dinner at a small Italian place near his flat, before wandering home.

When he opened the door to his flat, he had to blink a few times. Sherlock sat on his couch, eating a bag of crisps, still wearing his cap and gown.

"There you are," the younger man snorted impatiently. "What took you so long?"

"I—didn't your family want to be with you or something?"

"Mycroft was busy, and Mummy doesn't leave the house anymore," Sherlock shrugged. "Are you very attached to this flat, or have you ever considered moving?"

'What?" John blinked.

"Well, now that I've graduated, you can't possibly have any reasonable objections to people finding out we're in a relationship. I've found us a nice flat closer to the center of the city. It's much bigger. Together, we should be able to afford it."

"Are you… are you asking me to move in with you?" John felt like his brain was spinning.

"Yes," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Have you been drinking or something? You're not usually this slow on the uptake. The flat is at 221B Baker Street. I've made an appointment for us to look at it tomorrow. I know the landlady. She's a dear old woman."

"That sounds… that sounds great, Sherlock," John smiled breathlessly.

He went to sit on the couch. He took a moment to look around his plain little flat. At the white walls, minimal furniture, and tiny kitchenette. True, they'd made some great memories here.

But they could make new ones somewhere else. As long as he was with Sherlock, it didn't matter where they went. He would have been happy living in a cardboard box.

Sherlock put down the crisps and rubbed his hands off on the black gown. He shrugged it off after a few moments. He had on his usual trousers and button down underneath it. He pressed a salty kiss against John's lips and grinned.

"There are two bedrooms. I was thinking I could turn the upstairs one into a laboratory."

"Oh god. We haven't even looked at the place and you're already planning ways to blow it up," John sighed.

"I'm good with chemicals! You've seen me handle them."

John replied by pushing Sherlock back so that they sprawled across the couch and proceeded to snog him quite thoroughly.

* * *

_Special thanks to Impextoo for commissioning this here porn._

_Interested in making me your personal smut puppet? Lord knows I love writing porn, and I love it even more when I'm getting paid for it._

_Check out the commissions page of my tumblr (taylorpotato . tumblr tagged / commissions) or shoot me an email: taylorpotato at yahoo. com._


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